


moiety

by castles_inthesky



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 00:37:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/603876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/castles_inthesky/pseuds/castles_inthesky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>
    <b>moi⋅e⋅ty</b>
  </i>
  <br/>
  <i>
    <span class="small">[noun] one of two equal parts; an indefinite portion, part or share.</span>
  </i>
</p><p>Sherlock doesn't survive his fall.</p>
            </blockquote>





	moiety

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a medical professional by any means, so if the medical terms or anything are wrong feel free to tell me and I'll edit it right away. The song is The River by For the Foxes (it gives me ALOT of Johnlock feels and was basically my driving force while writing this, so go give it a listen~). This will make more sense later, but I was just watching Phenomenon and let me tell you-
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of its characters, everything belongs to their respective owners.

_Whenever you are, when I’m on the road  
We’re driving back past country roads, I’m calling home  
For you, for you_

_This is the last time, so darling close your eyes  
We don’t say goodbye, we’ll just say goodnight  
This is the last time, so jump into that fire  
We don’t say goodbye, we’ll just say goodnight_

_\--For the Foxes_

**\---**

Red.

It's the color that fills his eyelids, blurs his vision.

It's the color of his thudding heartbeat, the feeling of this rush of adrenaline.

**\---**

It's the color of his voice, when it pierces the atmosphere.

**\---**

It's the color of the pounding in his ears, distracting and discombobulating and _so damn familiar._

The sense of déjà vu brought back by his memories of the war is fleeting.

**\---**

It's the sick wrench in his stomach, the punch to his gut that makes him cringe.

**\---**

It's the fading color of his heart falling to his feet.

It's the color that taints the ashen sidewalk, spreads like the twisted, growing roots of an ancient tree, vivid and brilliant and demanding and _alive_.

For a moment, the contrast is almost beautiful.

**\---**

He sits motionlessly at Sherlock's bedside.

He doesn't look at him - doesn't study Sherlock's bloodless face _(textbook symptom of hypovolemia)_ , doesn't stare at the unnatural sheen of sweat on his clammy skin _(most likely stage 4)_ , doesn't eye the gauze bandage wrapped around his head, red starting to seep through _(massive cranial trauma, intra-axial haemorrhage, possible cerebral contusions)_. He focuses on the mechanical beeping and humming of the machines instead, looks at the line of the heart monitor rise and fall harshly, checks the blood packs dripping into his arm.

He does everything to dissociate himself, make this seem like another unfortunate stranger he might see during his shift in the trauma ward.

Why is this any different?

Why _should_ this be any different?

**\---**

He's lost track of time. The round patch of discoloration on the wall used to be a clock. The nurses come and go, but he doesn't see their faces, doesn't hear their words.

He forgets how long he's been sitting there until Sherlock stirs.

At first it's a low wheeze, so soft he thinks he might have imagined it. He doesn't take his eyes off the plastic flowers on the bedside, the fake neon colors a bleak attempt at brightening up the room.

"John."

It's barely a whisper, the sound oppressed by the stale air in the room.

John turns his head so quickly his neck cracks.

"Sherlock." His voice is sandpaper rough, coarse with disuse.

They don't say anything after that. John finds that strange - he has so much he wants to say, like _you're going to be okay, I promise_ and _Mrs Hudson baked a cake, but it smells funny so don't eat it_ and _I brought your skull 'friend'_ and _your coat is ruined_ and-

_I love you_

**\---**

He knows the survival rate of patients with trauma of this extent.

He knows not many of them manage to walk out of the hospital and lead the rest of their lives fully functional.

He tries not to focus on that.

He pretends not to notice Sherlock is getting weaker and weaker, that his breathing is shallower and shallower, that his moments of lucidity are getting shorter and shorter, farther and farther apart.

He pretends not to notice the doctors' conversations getting more and more serious, gradually becoming grave words whispered in a hushed circle, just within earshot.

He pretends not to notice less and less is being done to revive him every time he flatlines.

He doesn't.

**\---**

"John." The words barely make it past his feeble lips.

"Yes, Sherlock. I'm here." He grasps Sherlock's hand, and he pretends not to notice the lack of warmth in it. He doesn't look up, just stares at the back of Sherlock's hand, pale and colorless. He counts the blood vessels visible under the pasty skin.

_basilic vein_

He tries his best to tame his emotions, will the tears stinging at his eyes to go away.

_ulnar artery_

"Yes, Sherlock." He presses Sherlock's hand to his lips, the icy cold skin making his stomach heave.

_deep digital branches_

"John." There's something in his voice that makes his stomach drop and his head spin, but still he doesn't look up.

_palmer digital branches_

There's a moment of silence as Sherlock struggles around his words.

"Will you love me... for the rest of my life?"

He looks up, and as soon as his eyes meet Sherlock's, his facade shatters. He tightens his fingers around Sherlock's thinner ones, presses his lips harder against the bony knuckles. He breathes out, and it's the sound of castles crumbling, empires collapsing. He doesn't even think about his answer, his response reflexive and immediate, and his voice breaks on the next word.

"Yes."

_He knows he will._

**\---**

He sits there for days on end, until a nurse ushers him home forcefully, with the instructions to 'not come back until he gets some rest'.

He doesn't get any.

He sees Sherlock's shadow everywhere he goes - strumming a mindless tune on his violin, lounging on the couch with his palms pressed together, hunched over the table pouring over case notes.

**\---**

He find himself back at swinging glass doors of the hospital.

**\---**

He doesn't remember how it came to be like this. He looks at the Sherlock he barely recognizes, a maze of tubes and wires. He looks at the life-support machine next to Sherlock's bedside, the machine that breathes and beats for him, that keeps him just above the threshold of legally alive.

He sits listening to his borrowed heatbeat, his artificial breathing.

"He's done with this." He says, his voice barely a whisper. 

The next sentence shudders its way out of him. " _I'm_ done with this."

**\---**

He doesn't stay long enough to watch Sherlock flatline.

**\---**

It's weeks after that that John finally brings himself to visit Sherlock's grave.

"Hello, Sherlock."

He doesn't know what exactly to say.

"The weather turned nice - can you believe it? It's raining for the first time in god-knows-how-long."

He pauses, contemplates his next move.

"I helped Lestrade solve a case, did you know that?" He sees Sherlock in his mind again, as vividly and alive and _real_ as he was before, and he leans forward, eyes focusing on John, his hands pressed together as if in prayer. _Go on._

Abruptly, he smiles. It's the first smile he can remember, it's the first smile of his entire life.

**\---**

He steps forward, feeling the damp ground soften under his feet, and pressed his fingers gently to the top of Sherlock's gravestone.

"You know what, I was wrong before."

He pauses before continuing. "I won't love you for the rest of your life."

He lets a tear slide down the curve of his cheek, dipping and rising along the contours of his face. He tastes the saltiness when it reaches the corner of his mouth, and his lips curve into a thin smile.

"I'll love you for the rest of mine."


End file.
